


Lost Boys

by orange_panic_archive



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Bisexual Character, Firebending & Firebenders, Gen, Heavy Drinking, Male Friendship, Mental Health Issues, Not a Love Story, Platonic Relationships, Spirit World (Avatar)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28509522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_panic_archive/pseuds/orange_panic_archive
Summary: It's over. Kuvira's army has been defeated, the Great Uniter herself imprisoned awaiting trial. In the aftermath of the destruction, nearly everyone seems eager to move on. Rebuild. Reconcile. But for some, there is precious little to come back to. Forced into yet another humiliating defeat, General Iroh is put on administrative leave to deal with what he calls "some disappointment" and what everyone else calls "burning down half your own camp in a terrifying rage." There he reconnects with Mako, a burned-out (literally) detective trying to decide if surviving the battle with Kuvira was a good thing after all. A story of friendship, finding meaning, and getting accidentally stuck in the spirit world perhaps indefinitely. Oops.
Relationships: Iroh II/Mako (Avatar)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 23





	1. Does Not Meet Expectations (Iroh)

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who've read my other stuff, this is not Irohsami. I know, crazy, right? If you are waiting for it to become Irohsami, don't. It doesn't. It's also not very happy, especially at first. So if you want happy Irohsami, this isn't it.
> 
> It is also not Makroh, but does focus on their friendship. I only tagged it this way because someone suggested it for searchability, but am stating this clearly upfront to avoid leading anyone on. If you like Mako and Iroh II and want to see them go on firebending adventures, you might like this story. If you're waiting for them to get together, this isn't for you. I'm not saying it wouldn't happen, I just don't feel qualified to tell that story.
> 
> Korrasami and Bopal are present, but background.
> 
> So basically, no ships in this. Just deep, dark water.
> 
> I own nothing from LOK, I just steal shamelessly. Follows show canon until end of season 4, but does not follow comics after that.
> 
> T for language and violence. Rating may change. Comments always welcome!

Iroh threw the table across the room. It hit the heavy canvas of the tent with a thwap, bounced a little, and landed in a heap next to the chair in the dirt. One leg snapped off and rolled back across the ground. It bumped into the end of his stiff black boot and stopped. 

“Fuck!” he roared. “Koh-fucking-dammit!” In one swift movement Iroh reached down and grabbed the table leg, then hurled it at the wall of the command tent. He didn’t even wait to watch it hit. Instead he spun, aiming another flaming kick at the broken radio, the beastly mecha that had started this whole damned thing. His boot connected with the metal box, sending it skittering across the dirt with a clang. Iroh looked around for something else to throw, but he’d already pitched nearly everything not tied down. He stood there, panting, the rage coursing through him. But no target presented itself. His one-man war was over. He wasn’t sure if he’d won or lost.

Iroh sagged, suddenly spent. The command tent was a wreck. Papers and maps were strewn all over the ground from when he’d upended the filing cabinet. In fact, nearly all of the furniture was broken. There was a long tear in the canvas from where a chair leg had punched through the wall, and two ragged, smoking holes in the roof from blasts of fire. At least the tents were flame retardant. 

His head snapped up at a sound, but it was only the radio. It crackled slightly, smoke curling from its charred casing, nothing but static now. It lay on its side accusingly, as if it knew there was nothing Iroh could do and considered his subsequent treatment rather rude.  _ Surrender, _ it had said. And with that, its mission was over. No amount of kicking or firebending or shattering of mecha could take that order back.

Iroh looked around for a place to sit, but quickly saw that he’d broken all the chairs. Instead sat on the dirt floor, legs bent. Then he pressed his face to his knees, wrapped his arms over his head, and screamed. 


	2. Death and Fire (Mako)

Mako was dead. That was all right. Everyone had to die eventually, and when it came down to it, he’d never expected to die a hero. If anyone had asked him, he’d have said that he’d probably die in the line, stabbed in the back in some dark alley one night or just a half-second too slow with his bending. But if he was honest with himself, he didn’t really believe that. It was far more likely that he’d simply get old, outlive his usefulness, and one day one of Bolin’s kids would find old Uncle Mako stiff in his easy chair, cold fingers wrapped around a bottle of cheap whiskey, wearing nothing but his boxers and a three-day-old undershirt. 

Compared to that, dying while saving all of Republic City sounded pretty good.

“You idiot,” muttered a voice. “You absolute, stupid, heavy-ass, promise-breaking, crispy-armed idiot.” Mako became dimly aware that he was no longer alone. He didn’t know much about the afterlife, or even if there was one—growing up on the streets had a way of making you not particularly spiritual—but being greeted by someone calling him an idiot certainly wasn’t out of the question. 

The voice continued to roundly abuse him. As Mako floated in the darkness the insults got more creative, including things such as “ash-making”, “jerk-bending”, “uptight poodle-pony”, and “hero complex fire tosser.” A part of him marveled that whoever guarded death’s door could come up with quite so many different ways to ridicule him, but he reasoned that, given eternity, it was probably possible. Probable, even. 

Mako’s last thought before he faded out was that eternity must be very boring.

***

Pain was worse than death. That one was easy. Anyone who has ever felt real pain would tell you that. So of course it was just Mako’s luck that he awoke to an unbelievable amount of pain and the discovery that he hadn’t died at all, and probably wasn’t going to. 

The first thing he noticed was that his left arm was on fire. It wasn’t a gradual feeling, either. As soon as he became conscious he felt it, a deep, searing flame that went all the way to his bones. He shrieked and tried to jerk his arm away from whatever was burning him, but he couldn’t. It was like his own muscles wouldn’t even respond. Instead, he heard a pathetic wheezing. It almost sounded like someone was laughing at him, laughing at him with his arm on fire, unable to move. It took endless agony before Mako realized that it was the sound of himself trying to scream. 

The second thing he noticed was the light. Everything was bright, bright, like he’d fallen asleep at the beach and forgotten about it and then opened his eyes wide all of a sudden to find the sun straight overhead and he was hot and that his left arm was covered in stinging fire ants and spirits why couldn’t he move? He slammed his eyes shut against the blazing fire and tried with everything he had to get away, run away, firebend, anything, just  _ move _ and get them off and make it stop. 

“Whoa, there,” said a woman’s voice, low and soothing. “Easy there, tigerdillo.” A pause. “Seems he’s in a bit of pain. I’ll bump it up to four.” 

Suddenly the pain faded a little. Just a little, but it felt like a lifeline. It made it survivable. Because that’s when Mako finally knew what had happened. Somehow, unbelievably, he'd survived.


	3. The Aftermath, Part I (Iroh)

It turned out that “fire retardant” was an important label. It was clear and specific, promising nothing more than what it offered. Iroh appreciated that. So many things in his life had turned out to be disappointments. Being a prince, for one. In all of the stories it seemed that princes led fabulous lives of luxury and daring. They were brave and honorable, and spent their time battling dragons and demons and wicked usurping uncles with little but fire and wit. When they were (inevitably) victorious, they kissed the prettiest girl in the kingdom, who either was already a princess or who became one shortly after, and returned with her to life in the castle. Happily ever after.

Iroh spun, releasing a nearly solid gout of flame from his right fist. Someone shouted.  _ Or being a general, _ he thought as he kicked out with his opposite foot. More fire. More yelling. When he’d joined the United Forces, Iroh had imagined becoming a general would be the same thing as becoming a hero. He’d be fighting on the side of right to save a city from a terrifying threat, flanking the enemy with the skill and natural talent of a born leader, planting his foot firmly on the edge of  _ nullius terram _ and shouting, “This far, and no farther!” And, when he was (inevitably) victorious, he would kiss the prettiest girl in the resistance, who was either the daughter of the president or some other dignitary, or at least smart and courageous and very, very smitten with him. He would invite her back to his tent like a gentleman, and there he would make love to her all night while the fireworks of a grateful nation exploded across the sky.

Iroh laughed and lined up another shot. The tents were all empty, of course. Everyone was at the celebration. The  _ victory _ celebration. At least someone had won, but Iroh couldn’t for the life of him figure out what anyone in the United Forces had to celebrate. Fucking cowards, the lot of them. They weren’t qualified to wash dishes at a victory party, let alone drink and dance like they’d done anything other than sit on the sidelines with their collective thumbs up their asses. He breathed deeply, channeling the energies inside him, using his shame and his rage to conjure the hottest flame he could send long-distance. That turned out to be pretty hot. In one area, Iroh had never once been a disappointment: firebending. 

“General Iroh!” someone shouted. “What are you—” Iroh didn’t listen. He released, sending a ball of fire so hot it was nearly blue through the supply tent in front of him. It punched an almost perfect hole in the side of the canvas before exploding inside like a miniature bomb. He grinned. My, that felt good. And it was really rather pretty. 

Fire retardant, you see, is not the same as fireproof. 

***

It took them a long time to find the Avatar. Iroh didn’t mind. For the first time in a long time, he was having fun. Nearly half the camp was ablaze. Row after row of boring beige tents now sparkled and shone in the growing twilight. To him it looked rather like the Lantern Festival back home, but on a massive scale. They were all different colors, too; a blend of orange, yellow, and white that mirrored the perfect sunset over Yue Bay. Cherry red sparks swirled from the collapsing peaks, alighting on the grass or simply blowing away in the breeze. Iroh didn’t think the embers were doing much to spread the flames though. Fire retardant tents were, after all, still very hard to burn. The thought gave him a certain amount of pride. The beautiful destruction was a work all his own. At least he’d finally been good for something.

“General Iroh! Stop!” Iroh whirled, both palms full of flickering flames. They weren’t that hot. He just wanted to see what she would do. He had, of course, recognized the voice. 

“Avatar Korra!” he called. “Republic City’s hero! Want to give me a hand?” He turned and hurled a ball of fire at one of the already-flaming tents. The back blew out in a shower of sparks. 

Korra’s blue eyes blazed in anger. “What are you _ doing?”  _ she shouted back. “Iroh, these are your own tents! This is your encampment! I don’t understand, just stop!”

“I’m decommissioning!” Iroh laughed. “Why the fuck do I need tents, eh? United Forces are just going to surrender. It’s not even worth taking the  _ damned. Things. Down.” _ With each word he lashed out, pushing blast after blast of scorching flame from his hands and feet. A satotruck laden with boxes exploded as he hit the gas tank—Iroh had always had excellent aim. He smiled. “See!” he called. “One less thing to drive back!” 

Korra had flinched at the blast, but Iroh saw her set her feet. “I’m not going to let you do this, General!” she shouted. “I don’t care who you are.” She squared her shoulders, then bent two streams of water from the bottles suspended on her hips. 

Iroh’s smile widened. Spirits, this just got better and better. Finally,  _ finally, _ he got to fucking fight somebody. Maybe the kid would even be a bit of a challenge.

***

“It’s for your own good, General,” Korra said. Iroh just blinked. It was about all he was able to do, considering. All around him he heard the sound of spraying water as the United Forces’ many waterbenders rushed to put out the flames. 

“What got into him?” said a voice. It sounded like Commander Che, but Iroh couldn’t be sure. All he could see was the night sky thick with smoke.

Korra peered down at him and shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like that. General Iroh is usually such a nice guy. It’s like he just… I don’t even know.” She rubbed at a slightly red place on her arm. “He wasn’t pulling any punches, either.” She turned her face to someone else. “Any chance he was brainwashed or something? Bolin told me about Kuvira’s reeducation camps.”

“No idea,” said Maybe Che. “General Iroh would be the last man I’d expect to turn against the Republic, but then again no one saw Kuvira coming, either, and she wasn’t brainwashed. She was Beifong’s right-hand woman, too. Everyone is loyal until they find a reason not to be.” 

Korra shook her head again, her face troubled. “He didn’t sound like he was fighting the Republic, Commander. He sounded crazy. Did you hear him? He was actually laughing.”

“Avatar Korra.” A new voice, this time what sounded like a young woman. Iroh instinctively tried to turn his head, but of course he was still frozen in place. “I’m Healer Kyo. I’m here with the transport.”

“Thanks,” Korra said. 

Kyo leaned over so Iroh could see her. She had a round, dark face and rather beautiful eyes the color of arctic waves. She was even younger than he’d guessed by her voice, perhaps Korra’s age or even less. “Well hello there, General Iroh,” she said, pitching her tone high and slow. It sounded like how you might talk to a naughty child. “I heard you’re having a bit of a time. It’s all right though. We’re going to take good care of you, I promise.”

Iroh said nothing. The ice came up to just below the bottom of his nose, so while he could breathe just fine, he couldn’t speak. He didn’t mind though. He found talking to new people exhausting, and he’d done a lot of firebending today. 

Kyo turned back to Korra. “I’ve brought something to help him relax,” she said. “Just for the trip over. We can’t take the chance of a relapse.”

“He can’t firebend like that,” huffed Korra. “You need to move to firebend. I’m a firebender, remember? Iroh’s in six feet of solid ice. He’d not doing anything until I let him.”

“That may be, but we can’t keep him in ice on our end.” Healer Kyo looked down at him again and smiled. “Besides, you're probably uncomfortable. I’ll get you out of there just as soon as I can, okay?” Iroh was no such thing. Like most firebenders he tended to run hot, and had been doing a lot of exercise just now. The ice felt good, and he didn’t mind a bit of a rest, either. It was a little like a nice, cool, all-over hug.

Kyo pulled something out of her pocket. “Avatar Korra, he needs to take these. Do you mind if I free his mouth? Just for the pills?”

Korra frowned a little, then nodded. “All right.”

“I’m not going to do it,” Iroh said as soon as he felt the ice retreat. He pressed his lips resolutely shut. 

“It’s just to help you relax,” said Kyo. She held up two little red pills. They looked like candy. “They’re small, see? It’ll be fine, I promise. Then we’re going to go for a ride and, when you’re ready, maybe have a talk. Okay?”

Iroh said nothing. He kept his mouth closed. 

The young woman sighed a little, then batted her long eyelashes. Iroh groaned inwardly. “Not even for me, General?” she asked. “It would mean  _ so _ much to me. Just open up.” Her voice was breathy now, a little pleading. It made him want to burn her face off. Iroh hated women degrading themselves like this. It reminded him too much of the things he’d seen in the Forces; women with nothing else left trading on the only thing they still had available, hoping that a man or even a woman would be sad enough, lonely enough, or weak enough to pay for it. Iroh didn’t fault those women. He pitied them, and when he could, he tried to help them. But women like this, using a vague hint of sex to manipulate people instead of reason, or logic, or even force? He found it the worst kind of insult to every woman with half a brain and an ounce of guts, which in his experience was most of them.

“No,” he mumbled through his closed mouth. 

Immediately her demeanor changed. “They’re going in, General Iroh,” Kyo said, straightening. Her voice was diamond hard. “They are either going in your mouth, or, if you continue to refuse, I will have the Avatar turn you over so I can inject the suspension into your glutes. So, you tell me. Do you want to take these pills like a good patient, or do you want a shot in your ass?”

Iroh smiled. That was better. Yet he was firm. What was a man without principles? He had never once caved to an enemy—at least he had that dignity. “No,” he said again, careful to keep an eye on the hand with the two red pills. “I do not, nor have I ever needed a sedative. I am in perfect control of myself.” 

Kyo pressed her lips into a thin line. Then she turned to Korra. “Flip him.”


	4. The Aftermath, Part II (Mako)

A shadow passed over him. Mako opened his eyes. Bolin’s familiar face stared back, then broke into a wide smile. “Hey, big bro!”

“Hey, little bro,” Mako said, with considerably less exuberance but quite a bit of relief. His brother, at least at first glance, seemed unhurt. “You okay?”

Bolin blinked. “Am _I_ okay? Yeah, of course.” He hooked his thumb to the center of his chest. “I’m Bolin, Team Avatar’s greatest earthbender!” A flicker of doubt crossed his face. “Except maybe for Korra, who’s the actual Avatar… and can metalbend… but you know, greatest _exclusive_ earthbender.”

“And Korra? Everyone else made it out? No one is hurt? Wu?” Bolin didn’t look upset, but he had to be sure. His brother loved their friends as much as he did, Mako knew that, but he could also put a positive spin on a half-rotted turnip. And had. _We have half a turnip more than we used to!_ he’d said after Mako had found one once in a dumpster outside Flameo’s grill. He had almost thrown it back then, just on principle. Almost. Bolin deserved better than that. But he also deserved better than nothing at all, which it turned out was exactly what Mako’s pride was worth. Funny that.

“They’re fine,” said Bolin. “Everyone’s fine. Well…” His smile faded. “Asami is a little less than fine. Her dad and all. She said it’s like losing him all over again, which I guess it is. Korra’s staying with her though. And General Iroh is having a bit of a thing. But yeah, we’re all okay.”

Mako felt something in his chest let go. Bolin, Korra… they were all right, everyone was safe. He didn’t really remember anything after he’d attacked the spirit vines in order to get them to detonate and destroy the colossus, and though he’d assumed if anything terrible had happened he’d have seen it on Bolin’s face right away, Mako hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed to hear it, too. The fact that he had fully expected to die himself was something he had carefully avoided thinking about. 

Bolin looked at his watch. “Mr. Sato’s funeral is in a few hours, that’s why it’s just me here.” Mako started to get up, but Bolin shook his head firmly. “Nope. No way. You’re staying put. Everyone understands and says hi though.”

“But—”

 _“No.”_ Bolin set his jaw. “You’re not needed there. You’re needed here. Okay?”

Mako sank back down, then shoved himself up into more or less a sitting position on the bed, trying as hard as possible not to jostle his thickly bandaged arm. Maybe his brother was right. It was no longer the searing, blinding source of pain it had been earlier, but it still hurt. A lot. What it looked like under the bandages was also something Mako had done his best not to think about. Spending a third of his life on the streets had made him very good at not thinking.

“Kuvira?” he asked instead.

“Republic City Prison for now,” said Bolin. He looked around for a chair and, finding none, sat down on the end of Mako’s bed. Apparently detectives didn’t get the presidential suite at Katara Healing Authority, though at least he hadn’t had to share. “They’ve got her in one of those special wooden earthbender cells. She’s not going anywhere now, not that she would. She turned herself in.”

“She did?” That was surprising. Kuvira hadn’t seemed like the turn-yourself-in type to him. More like “ride or die.” 

“Yeah. I mean, your explosion brought down her big mecha monster and she didn’t have a lot of choices, but she could have fought it out. Korra yelled at her a bit and she surrendered though.”

Mako smiled inwardly at that. Korra, the most powerful bender in the world, making Kuvira give up by shouting at her was somehow very fitting. Korra was a world-class shouter.

“Told her army to disband, too,” Bolin continued. He waved his hands in a kind of “poof” gesture. “Just like that, it’s all over. It’s kind of amazing. The United Forces troops are doing something with them now… DRM? DDR?” He shook his head. “D- something, anyway, that seems to mean taking away their weapons and being way too nice.”

The mention of the United Forces jogged Mako’s memory a bit. “You said something happened to General Iroh though? I thought President Raiko made the United Forces stay out of the fight? That’s the whole reason we went in like we did.”

“Um…” Bolin looked suddenly uncomfortable. “He’s not hurt. He… had a thing. He’s in here, too, somewhere.” Suddenly he brightened. “But General Iroh is a tough guy, he’ll be fine! And the healers here are great! I mean, look at you, you’re practically good as new now, right?” 

“Definitely,” said Mako automatically. He had no idea if that was true or not, he didn’t even really know what had happened, but it was what his little brother wanted to hear. 

“I knew it!” Bolin pumped his fist in the air. “You had me worried there for a bit, but it takes more than a little spirit vine boom boom to stop an ex-Fire Ferret, eh?” For just a moment, Mako thought he caught a glimmer of worry in his brother’s wide green eyes. 

“You bet,” he said, with as much confidence as he could. Because he _was_ fine. He plastered a smile on his face and tried to make a fist with his left hand. Nothing happened.

***

Mako awoke in the middle of the night to the smell of smoke. He jerked up and instinctively tried to pull his left arm to his chest to keep it out of the flames. It did a kind of half-hearted flop and hit his thigh. 

“Gah!” he yelled as blinding pain shot up his arm. At the same time he snapped fully awake. As much as it might feel like it, his arm wasn’t on fire. Nothing in the little white healing center room was, either. He immediately felt stupid. He was a _firebender,_ for fuck's sake, an ex-pro, not to mention a guy who’d spent years doing the books in the smoke-filled back rooms of various illegal enterprises. Confusing the smell of cigarette smoke with any other kind was just plain embarrassing. 

Mako stopped. And _illegal._ No one was in imminent danger, but smoking near a healing center wasn’t allowed and hadn’t been for years. He was still a cop, right? No one had taken his badge. Therefore, he had a duty. Just because he was laid up didn’t let him off the hook. He looked at the small window, at first thinking that the smoker had to be right below him, but it was firmly shut. Then he noticed the door had been left open a crack. Someone was smoking INSIDE? That… that was so against the law it wasn’t even funny. And it was going to stop. Right now.

Slowly, Mako peeled back the white blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He tried to cradle his left arm to his chest, but couldn’t quite get it up, so instead he let it hang limp by his side and did his best not to bump it. The tile felt cool beneath his bare feet. He straightened, trying to look authoritative in nothing but a light blue healing gown. Mako didn’t know where his badge was, but at the very least he could tell off whoever was smoking, and in his experience striking the right tone was key. He could just see them now, too, leaning against the wall of the hallway. It was dim with the lights turned down, but the glow from the cigarette was all the brighter for it, illuminating a pale, square jaw. 

Mako strode to the cracked door of his room and flung it open, his face a mask of indignation. _Got you red-handed, asshole_.

“It’s illegal to smoke within 50 feet of a healing center,” he said loudly. 

General Iroh looked up at him, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “And?”

For a moment Mako couldn’t speak, he was so surprised. It was definitely him though. They’d never been close or anything, and the General of the United Forces was wearing the same light blue gown as Mako instead of his usual red and white uniform, but still. They’d met enough times, and it wasn’t like he was hard to recognize. It was just the last thing he’d expected.

“I said, it’s illegal to smoke in a healing center,” Mako said, recovering slightly. General or no, he was still breaking the law. 

The other man only shrugged. He reached up and pinched the cigarette between his fingers, removing it from his lips, but made no move to put it out. “Fuck that,” he said casually. “I do what I want now.”

Mako’s jaw dropped. The few times he’d met General Iroh the man had struck him as about as straight and die-for-my-honor as one could get. Hearing him break the law, use a swear word, and be selfish all in the same breath was about the same as if Pabu had started singing. 

“But…” Mako stuttered. “But…”

Iroh raised an eyebrow. “Want one?” 

“You need to put that out!” Mako finally spat. “ _Now._ It’s a 500-yuan fine.”

“So fine me,” Iroh said. “I can afford it.” He leaned back against the wall of the hallway again, seemingly completely relaxed, his thick black hair falling a little onto his forehead. If he’d been surprised to see Mako, or at all remorseful or embarrassed at being caught out, he didn’t show it. 

“The fine is not the point,” Mako said, trying to ignore the fact that 500 yuans was nearly a week’s salary for him. “The point is you can’t do it.”

The general said nothing. Instead he put the cigarette back in his mouth and inhaled, then coughed a little. 

Mako narrowed his eyes. He’d heard coughs like that before, mostly on 13-year-old street kids trying to play it tough. “General, do you even smoke?”

“What’s it to you?” Iroh said. He took another long drag and held it, as if trying to prove a point. He blew the smoke out of his mouth and made a little hiccuping noise. Upon closer inspection, he looked rough. His golden eyes were rimmed with red, and his hair seemed dirty and a bit unkempt. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, either. Hardly the clean-cut hero he’d been at the start of the battle.

The general dug in the single pocket of the gown and pulled out the pack. “I’ll sell you one.”

Mako hadn’t had a smoke since he was 16. The habit hadn’t mixed well with a serious pro-bending training regimen. “No,” he said firmly. “You can’t smoke in here, and you definitely can’t sell cigarettes, either. Honestly, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Iroh pulled the pack away. “You don’t have to get all testy. Market price, I promise. What’s it worth to you?”

“What?” Mako had no idea what was going on now, and was starting to wonder if it was all just the pain medication. Market price?

Iroh’s eyes were oddly flat in the dim light. “I asked what it’s worth to you.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Mako snapped. He lunged forwards and snatched the cigarette out of Iroh’s hand, then threw it to the ground and stomped on it with his bare foot. “You can’t smoke in here, and I told you I didn’t want one! I don’t even smoke anymore, and I don’t think you do, either.”

General Iroh looked down at the crushed cigarette, apparently unfazed. “Yuans are worthless here,” he said slowly. He cast a long glance down the hallway, as if making sure no one else was around. “But I’ve got the only cigarettes in KHA. So, they’re the new currency. That’s how it works. And I’ll give you one if you help me get out of here. Maybe even two.”

Mako threw up his good hand in exasperation. “No, Iroh, that’s not how it works! Cigarettes as money? Do you think we’re in prison or something?”

The corner of Iroh’s mouth twitched. “But aren’t we?”

Mako stamped his foot. This was absurd. He hadn’t been pinched often himself, but he’d spent a few long nights in lockup when he’d run with the Triple Threats and it was nothing at all like a healing center. Not even close.

“No! We’re not!” He was trying not to shout, it was the middle of the night, but he was angry now. This arrogant, pompous ass must think anything other than princely treatment was the same thing as prison. “General Iroh, have you ever been in jail, actual jail? Or even arrested?”

The general only shrugged again. “Not as such, no. But I took a lot of economics. I have cigarettes, you don’t. Ergo, I have a monopoly.”

“Well I have! We don’t go to trading cigarettes overnight!” Mako huffed. “And I don’t even want one! What use is a monopoly on something nobody wants?”

“Fine!” Iroh said. He stuffed the pack of smokes roughly back in his pocket. “More for me.” Then he spun on his heels and stalked off down the hallway, grumbling to himself.

Mako watched him go, half furious, half baffled. What the _hell_ was that all about? It was only then he remembered Bolin’s words from earlier. 

_General Iroh is having a bit of a thing._

He looked down at his useless left arm and tried to make a fist. 

_A bit of a thing._


	5. Tactics (Iroh)

Iroh lit the tip of his cigarette with his finger and breathed in. The smoke burned on the way down, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It tasted like ash and defiance. He coughed a little but held it in.

_I am the dragon._

He breathed out, pursing his mouth a little, then pressed his tongue quickly to the inside of his lips. The smoke in front of his face remained stubbornly amorphous. Not even a hint of anything that might be a smoke ring. _Damn,_ he thought. _How did they do that?_

He was seated cross-legged on the bed, which he’d pulled over to the far wall underneath the window. His long walk through the dark halls of KHA had proved just as boring as his little white room, and after the run-in with Mako he’d decided he may as well come back. It had served its purpose though. If he could get out of his locked room and into the halls, then he could get out of the halls and into the world. All he needed was patience and the right strategy. Iroh smiled. He hadn’t become the youngest general of the United Forces by being a lousy tactician. Strategy was what he did.

Iroh took another drag from the cigarette, then blew the smoke out his open window. Despite what he’d said to that prissy cop, he wasn’t eager to get busted. For one, he didn’t actually have 500 yuans. All of his money was state money, Fire Nation money, and his mother had quickly locked all of his accounts. All he had were the 20 yuans or so he’d had on him when they’d brought him in. For another, it could jeopardize his plan of attack. Not a lot of benders bothered to learn non-bending skills like lock-picking, but if anyone found out he’d been out of his room they might take his security a bit more seriously. 

He’d swiped the smokes from the desk of some hapless administrator almost on a whim. Iroh had never stolen anything in his life, and the feeling had been… odd. Exhilaration, guilt, shame, and triumph all rolled into one. It didn’t matter that he didn’t smoke, or didn’t particularly want to. It was that he’d done something, finally _done_ something, and expressly against orders, too. The fact that Mako had tried to bust him somehow made it all the better. Iroh could get in trouble. In trouble with _law enforcement._ He snorted a little. He’d never been in trouble before, not since he was six or seven years old. But boy, was he making up for lost time. It almost made him feel alive. 

A deep, rational part of him knew that this was very bad. It wasn’t just the smoking, or the stealing. Iroh had had a visit from President Raiko’s personal assistant, Yi-Lin, the day after he’d arrived. Raiko, true to form, had been too much of a coward to come himself. Yi-Lin had informed him that he, Iroh, was on administrative leave for the foreseeable future, until he “made a full recovery.” Iroh, having recently been given his daily dose of whatever it was they were giving him, hadn’t said much of anything to that. But he knew what it meant. He was staring a dishonorable discharge in the face once he left the healing center, and would be lucky if that was all. He’d burned down half his camp. He could go to prison, a real one. It was only a matter of time.

The worst part of all was that he didn’t seem to care.

Suddenly Iroh pitched the cigarette out the window. He flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. His drugs came first thing in the morning. The healers insisted that they were just to keep him calm, but he knew what they really did. They made him fuzzy, made it difficult to concentrate. He figured it was no accident that firebending was all concentration. After one of those injections, Iroh probably couldn’t even light a cigarette. That meant that now, in the few hours before his morning medication, was his best thinking time. His best bending time.

Iroh rolled his wrists and pushed a little, filling his hands with flames. He just watched them for a while, dancing delicately across his palms. 

All he needed was the right strategy. Because fuck if he was going to stay here.

***

Iroh pushed a little. A bright yellow flame appeared at the tip of his right index finger. 

“I’d like you to take a look at this, Iroh.” She didn’t call him “general.” No one here did. He let the fire go out. 

The young woman, Healer Kyo she’d said her name was, handed him a single sheet of paper. Iroh didn’t take it. Instead he looked at her hand. It was smooth and slim and strong, with almost no wrinkles or calluses. A hand for shaping water. In contrast the hand still in his lap seemed a pale wood on a blue cotton beach, carved and weathered by the waves. Not to bend water, but at its mercy. He wondered what it would be like to touch her. 

Kyo, seeing he didn’t move, placed the paper on his lap. Iroh ignored it. Instead he breathed in and focused a little, then pushed harder. This time, the flame was orange. Real firebending required movement to channel the energy, to shape it, bend it to the user’s will, but little fires were possible while sitting still. At least if you were any good. And he’d been practicing.

“I think it might help you to put some of your feelings into words,” Kyo said. Iroh let the orange flame go out and looked down. 

_How often in the last four weeks have you felt the following?_

Below the heading were a series of phrases and checkboxes along a scale. He didn’t bother reading them. Iroh wasn’t stupid. He knew a psych evaluation when he saw one.

“I’m fine,” he said. He focused on the end of his finger again, giving the fire a firm push. The little flame that popped up was a deep purple now. He could see the heat shimmer around it, delicately warping the air. He’d always admired that about fire, how you couldn’t ignore it. Unlike the other elements, it didn’t push or pull or displace. There was no kinetic energy or balancing of mass. Fire simply took until it couldn’t. Then it died. There was an elegant simplicity to that. Iroh had never been much like fire.

The purple flame went out. 

“Iroh,” Healer Kyo said gently. “I need you to stop doing that.”

He leaned back a little in the chair. Kyo’s office, or whatever she called it, was at least a welcome change from his room. For one, it wasn’t white. Instead, the walls and furnishings were various shades of blue, the furniture itself of smooth white wood. It was probably meant to be calming, but it made Iroh feel slightly adrift. Still dressed in the mandatory light blue gown, he felt almost invisible. Blue walls, blue curtains, blue chair, blue Iroh. Just another decoration.

Kyo reached out again and took the paper off his lap. She set it back on the small table next to her own chair. “We’ll try again tomorrow, okay? But please think about it. As I’ve said before, everything you say in here is confidential. And you’ll feel better once you open up to someone. I know you will.”

Iroh held up his hand and focused on his finger. This time it was harder. The drugs still made it very difficult to bend. Can’t go burning down the healing center, now can we? He ground his teeth a little, feeling a faint prickle of sweat break out on his forehead. He tried his best to block out all thought. There was no blue room. There was no blue chair. There was no blue Iroh. There was only fire.

A tiny flame appeared at the tip of his finger. It was, ironically, bright blue.

“Iroh.” Kyo’s voice was a little sharper now. “Put it out.”

Iroh met her eyes and stretched his lips into a smile. He let the flame linger for a full ten seconds before it winked out. He might have been captured, but that didn’t mean he had to cooperate. His training had taught him that, while it wasn’t necessary to fight everything, small acts of rebellion were helpful in keeping a sense of self and purpose during imprisonment. If you caved to all of the enemy’s demands, it wasn’t long before you were spilling your guts. It would take more than a couple of shots and a locked room to break a man like Iroh.

Healer Kyo stood, her face a mask. If she was angry or upset, she didn’t show it. Her dark gray-blue eyes were fathomless. Iroh got the distinct impression that Kyo was not a woman who would break easily, either. “I’ll walk you back to your room,” she said. 

Iroh stood. There was no point in fighting this part. If he didn’t go, she’d call for backup and they’d either drag him or lock him in ice again. Besides, his room wasn’t all that unpleasant. The drugs also made him tired and a bit dizzy, and anyway he still had a lot of planning to do. It might be difficult for him to bend, and to concentrate, but he’d found neither were impossible if one was willing to work at it. Iroh was, above all else, a man of discipline.

They made their way towards the door that led to Iroh’s hallway. That ward was locked, as was his room—he’d been paying careful attention to the location and status of doors—but the one at the very end of the hallway that led to the stairs wasn’t. So it was no surprise when someone pushed their way in through the big double doors. The surprising part was who.

Iroh had recognized Mako easily when he’d done reconnaissance a few nights before, of course. They didn’t know each other well, and hadn’t spoken in years, but he had a good memory for faces and anyway the Avatar’s close friends were well-known. Iroh had found the young man insufferably self-righteous the first time they’d met, not to mention needlessly cruel to his girlfriend, and hadn’t thought much of letting the acquaintance lapse. Nothing he’d seen lately did anything to change his opinion, either. Threatening someone with a fine before stamping out their cigarette was hardly “hello.” The man could have at least been polite.

Mako was still dressed in the blue cotton gown of a patient, but unlike Iroh he didn’t have an escort. He also seemed to have showered, or at least have access to something that let him style his dark brown hair into a funny little wave. The bandaged arm he hadn’t been using at all two nights ago was now tucked into a white sling. Yet here he was, on Healer Kyo’s floor, which Iroh had noted contained a mix of waterbenders and non-benders handling what was tactfully described as “non-physical conditions.” Even in his slightly fuzzy state he could put it together. Mako had injured his arm, probably badly considering the length of his stay. Presumably the room he’d come out of the other night was his room, which was on another of the unlocked wards two floors down. And he seemed to have freedom of movement throughout the building. Yet here he was, walking purposefully through the psych ward as if he had somewhere to be. It practically screamed work-mandated consult. Which, in turn, meant _how_ he’d injured his arm was likely important.

Iroh filed that away for future use. At this point, all intelligence was good intelligence.

Mako, for his part, at first averted his eyes, as if unexpectedly finding himself face-to-face with Iroh in broad daylight was cause for embarrassment. Then he stiffened a little and looked him right in the face. His copper eyes were hard and steady. Iroh smiled and nodded. Good. The man might be a dick, but at least he stood his ground. 

Mako nodded back as he walked by. “General,” he said.

“Detective.” Iroh’s smile widened as soon as he passed. Well, at least someone was willing to call him general.


	6. The Overtime Clock (Mako)

_“You’re not needed,” Korra had said. “Really. There will be plenty of us there. You don’t even like Varrick all that much, Mako. He got you arrested to cover his ass, remember?”_

_“Nobody likes Varrick,” said Mako. “Except Zhu Li, I guess. But if everyone is going to be there, I should be there, too.”_

The bar at Room 503 was packed. That was exactly how Mako wanted it. He wanted to be swallowed by people, to disappear into that anonymity. He liked it the same way he liked the crowds at a pro-bending game. To be caught up with everyone, part of the group, part of the team, but also no one’s particular focus. He’d never been the chattiest guy, but he’d also never liked being alone, even if alone was really what he was. This way, he got to be alone together.

Mako looked down at his empty shot. “Hey, can I get—”

_“—a little credit?” Mako waved his bandaged arm. He still couldn’t use his hand, but Korra didn’t need to know that. “All I’m waiting for is the head-shrinker checklist. Besides, no one should go to a wedding alone. You can be my date.”_

_Korra laughed. She’d always had a great laugh, rich and loud. “I’m serious, stay here, Mako. You haven’t been discharged.” For some reason her cheeks went a little pink. “Besides, Asami’s my date! Bolin and Opal are back together, and as you said, no one should go to a wedding alone. Especially, you know, after what happened—”_

“—to your arm?” the bartender asked. She nodded to his sling. “If you want to dull the pain, I’d go whiskey over tequila.”

Mako shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about himself, or his arm, or much of anything. “Tequila is fine. Another, please.”

The young woman gave him a look that said “suit yourself” and poured him a third shot. She eyed him skeptically. “Do you want some water with that?”

“No, I’m—”

_“—fine, Korra,” he said. “I promise. It’s much better.”_

_She shook her head. She’d done something different with her hair for the occasion. The loose strands framing her face swayed slowly. Mako resisted the urge to reach up and touch them. He could still imagine how they felt sliding through his fingers. “The words ‘thank you’ don't feel big enough for what you did,” she said. “But I honestly don't know what else to say.”_

_Mako swallowed. Her eyes were so blue. All of a sudden it was all worth it, the pain, the hospital stay, even shoving his injured arm into the suit. “You don't need to say anything. I want you to know, I'll follow you into battle, no matter how crazy things get. I've got your back, and I always will.”_

_Korra smiled. “I know. We’ve all got each other’s backs. You, me, Bo, Asami. That’s the only way we’ve survived any of this.”_

_Mako took a deep breath. This was it. It was just like a pro-bending tie after a long losing streak. One-on-one in overtime, all down to him, his move. One shot, win or lose._

_“Korra. That’s not what I—”_

—meant you should take a break,” the bartender said. She shoved a glass of water across the counter. “Trust me, I’m a professional. Drink this like a good boy and I’ll get you another shot.” 

Mako took a sip of the water. He wasn’t in the mood to argue. Everything around him had gone a little fuzzy. There seemed to be some commotion at the other end of the long bar though. It wasn’t that surprising. It was Saturday night, after all, and Room 503 wasn’t all that far from either of the colleges. When push came to shove, he’d gone for a place where he knew he could afford the drinks. It was dark, anonymous, and cheap. Rather like Mako himself. Perhaps this was where he belonged.

“Do it!” someone shouted from across the room. There was a chorus of laughs and cheers. Then someone took up the chant. “Doooo it! Doooo it! Doooo—”

_“—it anymore,” said Chief Beifong. “Kuvira’s in lockup and isn’t going anywhere. He doesn’t need a bodyguard, and even if he did he can certainly have one from the Earth Kingdom now instead of tying up my detectives.” She narrowed her eyes at Mako. “Speaking of your work, Detective, don’t think I don’t know you snuck out of the healing center to be here. You’re still on a leave of absence. Your PE was… well, we can talk about later. But go straight back after this, that’s an order.”_

_“Leave of absence?” Mako said. At first he thought he’d heard her wrong. “I don’t understand.” Guarding Prince Wu had been his full-time job for months. He hadn’t much enjoyed it, although Wu had grown on him as he’d grown up a little. But without that, he needed to get back to work, to have a case._

_“Yes, leave of absence. I’m not reassigning you. I’ve got no use for a one-armed cop.” Mako instinctively tried to make a fist with his left hand. The ends of his fingers gave a half-hearted twitch. That was all._

_“But what am I supposed to do?” The tone of his voice made him cringe. Being a detective was all Mako had. The Fire Ferrets had broken up years ago. He’d patched things up with Bolin, but his brother had his own life now, his own place, and a serious girlfriend. Mako had never had many hobbies or friends. He hadn’t dated anyone seriously since Korra, and no one at all in the last six months or so. His work was his life._

_The chief’s expression softened. She must have seen the look of panic in his eyes. “Take some leave, Mako. Rest. Recover. Go on vacation or something. RCPD will survive without you, believe me.” She gave him a searching look that was utterly uncharacteristic of her usual brisk nature. “What do you want—”_

“—that next shot?” the bartender asked, raising an eyebrow. Mako nodded. He didn’t even think about it. He didn’t want to think anymore. That was the point of coming here, wasn’t it? The young woman placed the shot in front of him just as a large man or maybe a small polar bear dog shouldered his way between Mako and the person on the stool next to him.

“Excuse me,” the man said. It took Mako a moment to realize what he’d first taken for an animal was the man’s gigantic white fur coat. The furry man nodded sharply behind him. “This fine person is going to buy me another one of those mouth shot things.” 

It took another long moment before Mako recognized him. “General Iroh?”

The general’s head snapped down to Mako and his eyes widened. “Ah,” he said. “Er, no.” Iroh stepped away from the bar, momentarily flustered.

“I know who you are,” Mako said. “I’m not an idiot.” Spirits, why did he keep running into this guy? And more than that, what the _hell_ was he wearing?

Now that he could see him clearly, General Iroh was dressed in the strangest combination of clothes Mako had ever seen. His tall frame had been almost swallowed by an enormous white spotted fur that looked like real snow leopard caribou. It was thick and fluffy, with a huge puffed collar, and came all the way down to his knees. Underneath he had on what looked like a lime green tank top and the tightest black leather pants that Mako had ever seen. On his feet were some kind of gold slippers.

“What are you doing here?” Mako asked, choosing to ignore the bizarre getup. “Are you following me?”

“What? Of course not.” A long pause. “I don’t even know who you are, Mako.”

Mako rolled his eyes. “You just used my name.”

Iroh muttered a curse. “Well, nice catching up.” He glanced at a petite young woman standing awkwardly next to him, who looked to Mako to be no more than 18 or so and at least a few drinks in herself. Probably one of the university students. “Were you still buying me that drink?”

Mako abruptly stood and grabbed Iroh’s elbow, hauling him away from the bar with his good arm. If the general had to be here, he could at least stop exploiting the children. 

“What are you doing?” Iroh sputtered. He seemed momentarily caught off guard, but on closer inspection Mako decided he was just really, really drunk. 

“Apparently saving the world from you.”

Iroh’s face darkened. He dug in his heels, and all of a sudden Mako couldn’t move him at all. “I’m not hurting anyone,” Iroh said evenly. Suddenly he didn’t sound nearly as drunk. Mako released his arm and took a step back.

“Then what _are_ you doing?”

“Economics,” Iroh said. His tone didn’t change. 

“You’re selling them cigarettes?” Mako almost choked. About the only thing worse than General Iroh smoking in a hospital was him hawking cigarettes to kids.

“No. I’m selling myself. You’d be surprised how quickly someone will buy you a drink for a little of your time.”

No one had ever bought Mako a drink in his life. He was usually the one doing the buying. He shook his head, trying to clear it. For the second time, meeting General Iroh was making him feel like he was dreaming. Or more like having a nightmare.

Suddenly Iroh stepped forwards and grabbed his arm. “Come on, your turn.” He dragged Mako back in the direction of the far end of the bar. The whole room wobbled a little. Apparently the tequila was kicking in. Iroh shoved him down on a miraculously vacant stool, then straddled the one beside him. He flagged down the bartender, on this end a middle-aged man with a long black ponytail. 

“Two…” He looked at Mako. “What were you drinking?”

“Tequila.”

“Tequilas,” Iroh repeated. He shifted his enormous coat a little, as if hot. Up close he looked flushed. 

“That’s… an interesting choice,” Mako said. “I’ve never seen you out of uniform.”

“Don’t be petty,” Iroh said. “It’s not my fault you dress like Lin. I only had 20 yuans and I couldn’t very well wear my uniform. But it turns out thrift shops are quite”—he made a small hiccup— “versatile.”

Mako looked down. He was still wearing the brown suit and red tie he’d worn to the wedding. It was the nicest set of clothes he owned. “I don’t dress anything like Chief Beifong,” he snapped. “And at least I don’t look like I escaped from a South Pole circus.”

The bartender put two shots on the bar, then looked at them expectantly. Iroh raised an eyebrow. Mako sighed, dug in his pocket for his wallet, and paid. Iroh leaned back on his stool with a smile. “And yet, everyone’s buying me drinks tonight.” He tipped his glass in a salute and took a sip. Who sipped a shot? Then Iroh coughed a little, not unlike he’d done while smoking, and Mako wondered exactly how much the general really drank. “Why _are_ you all dressed up?” he said.

“Varrick’s wedding,” answered Mako. There was no point in lying.

The general’s thick brows knitted together. “Someone married that asshole?”

Mako snorted. He couldn’t help it. “There’s someone for everyone.” Korra’s blue eyes flashed across his vision and he frowned. 

“What was that?” Iroh asked.

“What?” 

“That look.”

“I didn’t have a look.”

“Yes you did.” 

Iroh studied him. “What ever happened with you and Avatar Korra, anyway?”

What, could General Iroh read minds now? Mako didn’t answer, instead hoisting his own shot and downing it. What number was that? Five? Six? He’d lost count.

Iroh looked from the empty glass to Mako’s face and back again. “Was Avatar Korra at this wedding thing, by any chance?”

“Yeah.” 

“What did you say?” The general took another quiet sip from his shot.

Mako thought for a moment. “I told her I’d always have her back in battle.”

Iroh blinked at him, then spit his drink all over the bar. He came up laughing, his face nearly scarlet. “You’re… serious?” he heaved. 

Mako scowled at him. In his mind he’d been perfectly clear. 

The general cocked his head slightly. “There’s still time, you know.”

Mako fiddled with his empty glass. Inside his head, the overtime clock continued to tick, relentless and impossibly slow. 

_Ten! The crowd chanted._

_Nine!_

_Eight!_

His move. Win or lose?


	7. I Don’t Need No Backup Plan (Iroh)

The music was like a physical thing. It thumped and twisted inside him, stronger even than fire, forcing his movements. Iroh’s arm shot out, then his leg, all the while his hips moving in a fast circle seemingly of their own accord. He spun, the whole world a blur, everyone else in the bar fading into the background. He couldn’t fight it. He couldn’t fight it, even if he’d wanted to. Instead he leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and let it take him.

And there, in front of everybody, Iroh danced. 

_I don’t want nobody  
_ _Nobody don’t want me_

He knew perfectly well how to dance, of course. He’d had lessons as a child as any one of his station would. But he’d never done this kind of dancing. This was all feeling, all of it. There were no prescribed steps. There were no partners, either, at least as far as he could tell. Instead, everyone on the floor moved in the same kind of dreamy trance, their bodies gyrating, sweat pouring down their faces. It was terrifying, exhilarating, that loss of control. Iroh had never given himself to anything that completely, or anyone, not even the Forces. The music owned him, body and soul.

And he loved it.

 _I don’t need no  
_ _Backup plan_

Iroh twirled. He had a dim idea that the alcohol might be affecting him, but it was nothing but a soft whisper in the back of his mind. Nothing at all compared to the energy that had overtaken him. Across the floor he spotted Mako. The stiff prick wasn’t dancing, not really, but his eyes had a kind of glazed look and he was bopping his head all the same. Some people were hopeless. 

Iroh took another small sip of the tequila that was somehow still clasped in his hand, trying not to choke on it. It really was awful stuff, all of it. He tipped it up again and drained the glass, grimaced, then whirled and placed it bottoms-up on a nearby table like he’d seen a few others do.

_No sense trying_   
_When the whole thing drops_   
_You lose your nerve_   
_I hope you get what you deserve_

A young woman sidled up to him. Iroh could barely see her face. She rubbed her body up against his and he let her, the both of them lost in the dance. Surprisingly, he found he didn’t care at all who she was or how far she wanted to take this. When he’d walked out of KHA that evening—and in the end, that’s all it had taken, simply picking the locks on his room and his ward and then walking out like he had every right to leave—he’d had a vague notion that he should try to get laid. In all probability he’d be caught soon, court martialed, and sent to prison where he’d be looking at nothing but his right hand for a good five to seven. But now that he was out, Iroh was finding his physical needs were much less specific than he’d thought. Spirits, it had been so long since he’d been touched by someone, or at least someone who didn’t mean him harm, that it hardly mattered what it actually was. The girl could be anyone, and do anything, and it would have been enough to simply be wanted at all.

All his life Iroh had been a model. Model son, model student, model soldier. In his brief relationships he’d been a model boyfriend, a true prince. A _gentleman._ Hell, he’d been a model prince, too, tall and straight and able to look the part while having none of the usual vices; drink, drugs, women, a fondness for spending more than he ought. He was a living symbol of everything a man of the Fire Nation should be, with one small, tiny, insignificant exception: Iroh wasn’t living at all.

He’d felt so lost lately. Not just since the battle with Kuvira’s army, or rather, the distinct lack of a battle on his part. When he had really thought about it back at KHA—and he hadn’t much, he tried not to think about it—it had been years since he’d done anything he’d been really proud of. President Raiko ran the United Forces exactly like the chickenshit asshole he was, moving them around from place to place to posture but pulling them back, pulling Iroh back, before he could do any real good. Raiko had wanted a diplomatic solution, a political solution, _any_ solution or none at all as long as it would save his polls and his skin until a literal giant mecha terror was standing on his doorstep, lasering his city. And then he’d folded with not so much as a fireball across the bow.

And Iroh had let him. At first he’d thought he’d understood. Raiko was the very first president, and had never served himself. He needed time to learn. But as the years went by Iroh found his leash getting shorter and shorter until he was nothing but the United Republic’s deer dog, all bark and no balls and mostly for show. Sit, Iroh. Shake hands. Roll over.

What kind of soldier was that? What kind of _man_ was that?

He felt a rough hand on his arm. “That’s enough, buddy,” Mako said. “I draw the line at you groping the undergrads.” 

Iroh let himself be pulled back to the bar as the song changed. He didn’t mind. He was suddenly exhausted. It occurred to him that he didn’t have a place to sleep, but it was summer and he’d be fine in the open air and at any rate anything was better than being shut up in the hospital. He pulled his fur coat off his shoulders as he collapsed onto a stool, letting the air cool his bare arms. 

“We should go,” Mako said. “Both of us.” His eyes looked bloodshot and unfocused. “You going back to the camp?”

Iroh shook his head slowly, then hiccuped. “I don’t want nobody,” he hummed. “Nobody don’t want me.” 

The detective narrowed his eyes. “Wait. You were discharged, right?”

Well that wouldn’t do. Mako was entirely too perceptive for someone seven or eight shots of tequila into his evening. Iroh rubbed his face, stalling for time while he tried to pull his drunken thoughts together. Then he had an idea.

“You should tell her,” he said.

Mako frowned. “Tell who what?”

“Tell Avatar Kira that you love her.”

“Korra. And I don’t love her.”

Iroh rolled his eyes. “There are only two reasons someone gets shitfaced alone after a wedding,” he heard himself say. His voice sounded far away, as if he were a guest in his own brain, everything coming through on a radio with a two-second relay. “Either they’re in love with the someone they aren’t with, or they’re not in love with anyone at all and are terrified of that. I have you pegged as the former.”

“I just needed some space is all,” the detective said, a flash of anger in his voice. 

Iroh dug deep into his memory. “Then what was all that about… about…” He closed his eyes, trying to picture the scene from earlier. “About having her back in battle?”

Mako flushed. Ah ha, so he’d hit on something. He’d always been good at reading people, and even in his current state it was rather obvious. So loverboy here had never really gotten over the Avatar. His eyes flicked down to the other man’s bandaged arm.

“You think she doesn’t want a one-armed firebender?” he asked. 

Mako’s face went from scarlet to white. “Shut the fuck up about what you don’t know about,” he snapped.

“Whoa, okay.” Iroh held up his hands in a gesture of peace. Somewhere he’d filed away that how the detective had gotten injured was important, but he couldn’t remember much more than that. Yet apparently he’d touched a nerve. “I was only thinking that now is a good time to tell her how you feel. You’re lit. And you two were at a wedding. Weddings stir up all kinds of feelings.” He waved his arm around, trying to show what feelings might look like. Mako’s face remained impassive. “Anyway, it’s perfect. If she turns you down, well, you were drunk. She might be drunk too, who knows. Best case, neither of you remember. Worst case, you have a great excuse.” 

Mako rubbed at the back of his neck and looked at his feet. Iroh didn’t know why he was pushing him. He was tired, and needed to find a place to sleep where he wasn’t likely to get arrested for vagrancy. But something about the other man’s predicament pulled at him. It was a mission, a sense of purpose. Maybe he had one last campaign in him after all. If he could get the Avatar together with this sad sack of a detective, who could say he hadn’t made his mark on the world? 

“Come on,” Iroh pushed. “You’ll feel better if you’re honest.”

“I can’t,” Mako said to the floor. “She left.”

“Left?”

“Left.” The detective raised his head, his expression sober. “She and Asami decided to go on vacation. They left right after the reception. They… they went into the spirit world.”

 _Asami Sato? Now_ that _was interesting._ Iroh smiled a little. It had been years, but they’d had fun together. If Mako wound up with Korra, well, poor Miss Sato might be bored. 

Iroh hopped up off the stool, steadying himself on the bar. “They can’t have gone far,” he said. He put his other hand on Mako’s shoulder and shook him slightly. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a few spirits, are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SWEAR this isn't going to be Irohsami... but I couldn't resist a little hint of a past.


End file.
